


Riptide

by Jw_Summers



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Ashton owns a music store, Calum & Mikey & Luke are tattoo artists, Harry is their boss, Kinda, Piercings, Tattoos, punk 5sos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jw_Summers/pseuds/Jw_Summers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he hadn’t realised, however, was just how tipsy he was until he found himself gravitating towards a bright, neon sign spelling out in glowing blue and pink letters:</p>
<p>TATTOO & PIERCING<br/> <br/>_______________________________________________________________</p>
<p>In which Ashton had lost his way a little in life until some interesting people guide him back on track in the most unexpected ways. There's an artist with a troubled past who literally wears his life on his (tattoo) sleeve; the dorkiest video game addict/hair dye enthusiast he has ever met - and a tall, blonde someone who is just a paradox in every possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ashton was a little drunk.

He wasn’t going to deny that. He was a sensible adult who knew his limits and he wasn’t going to try and argue that he was sober because he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to do silly things that stupid, reckless teenagers did because he was not a teenager – he was a grown-up, rational man with a steady income and a little shoebox of a loft to call his own.

A loft that now felt very empty because his ex-fiancée had just moved out.

What he hadn’t realised, however, was just how tipsy he was until he found himself gravitating towards the dingy, hole-in-the-wall doorway down an alley with a bright, neon sign spelling out in glowing blue and pink letters:

TATTOO & PIERCING

 

A muted electronic buzzer announced his arrival when he opened the door. The receptionist, a pale lad whose bright red hair bursting out in all directions from beneath a black snapback, looked up disinterestedly from a phone screen and greeted Ashton with a nod of his head. Ashton smiled back briefly, taking a moment to examine his surroundings.

The shop was surprisingly clean and bright, considering its somewhat questionable location. The flooring was comprised of polished black slate tiles that matched the glossy granite counter behind which the receptionist currently sat, once again pre-occupied with his phone. A glass display cabinet attached to the counter’s front, showing off an impressive array of gleaming body jewellery. The walls were adorned with photos of previous works as well as framed designs in both realist and abstract styles. A red leather bench ran along the wall adjacent to the main counter and a sliding door which presumably led to a bathroom beside it. A water dispenser and small plastic wastebasket stood in a corner.

“Can I help you?”

Ashton whipped his head around, too fast, and in his intoxicated state felt a little bit dizzy.

“I’m good, bro. Thanks. Just having a browse for now.”

Snapback nodded almost absently, watching Ashton curiously. “That’s cool mate; just wanted to let you know that we close in about an hour. Cal’s just in the back finishing up a piece and if you wanted something done tonight…”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.” Ashton answered, suddenly wondering why he was even in this shop to begin with. He had no idea he had even wanted a tattoo or piercing, let alone what of.  However, he quickly made a response to Firehead. “I won’t be long. Like, half an hour tops? Would that be okay?”

“Should be fine. We’ll see how long Cal takes tonight, otherwise we can always reschedule you for some other day, yeah?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol (Okay, it was absolutely the alcohol. And maybe some stange concoction of hurt and anger and loneliness) but Ashton suddenly felt a wave of assuredness with himself. “I want a tattoo tonight” he voiced, much more confident than before.

Receptionist raised his eyebrows at the change in tone. Ashton noticed for the first time the multiple steely piercings framing the arch of his eyebrow. He didn’t have a chance to respond, however, before laughter was heard from down a short hallway and a lanky young man walked around the corner, long sleeve of his white shirt rolled up to accommodate the plastic wrapping over his right foreman. Behind him trailed a tall, tanned guy wearing a Green Day shirt. Pierced-Eyebrow turned his attention to the new arrivals on the scene.

“Let’s see!” he gestured with grabby hands.

White-shirt strolled over, smiling as he extended his arm over the counter for him. The other, who Ashton assumed to be Cal, made his way to behind the counter to slide what appeared to be a polaroid photo into a drawer on the desk. When he turned back around, he noticed Ashton in the back corner of the shop where he hadn’t moved since first arriving.

“Oh, hello.” He greeted, pleasantly. “I’m Calum. Can I help you tonight?”

“Y-“ Ashton cleared his throat. “Yes. A tattoo, please.”

“Sure. It’s just uh, we close at eleven so it can’t be anything too elaborate. What have you got in mind? We can always reschedule-“

That strange feeling of annoyance he experience just moments before began to claw at Ashton’s chest again. He wanted this. He wanted to be spontaneous; like he once was before his now ex-fiancée had come into his life and completely screwed it over. He wanted a tattoo tonight. Why did these people keep telling him he had to reschedule?

“It won’t take long.” He interrupted, a tight smile on his face.

Cal, seemingly unfazed, nodded. Glancing over to see that receptionist was still preoccupied with admiring the other guy’s new ink, Calum gestured for Ashton to head towards the hallway before reaching under the counter for some paper and pens.

He filled a paper cup of water for each of them from the dispenser before walking over.

They headed into a small but cosy room with two plush armchairs at either end of a dark mahogany coffee table and a potted plant in a corner. Ashton sunk into the comfortable embrace of one of the armchairs, gulping down the icy water and groaning. He was so tired. And tipsy. But he could do this – he could hold it together for an hour.

When he finally found it in him to open his eyes, he was met with an amused stare from the man seated across from him.

“Rough night?” he quipped, smirking as if he knew something Ashton didn’t. It was annoying.

“Rough week.” He replied, placing the empty cup on the table and clutching his head in his hands.

“Bro, I know you’ve been drinking and we kinda have a policy here about not tattooing anyone under the influence.” Ashton opened his mouth to protest, but Calum raised his hand to indicate that he wasn’t done talking. “Trust me; I have been you on too many occasions to count. This policy is to protect our clients. I mean fuck – and you can’t tell Mikey out front that I told you this or I swear to god he will never fucking let me live this down –  but I once had a bit too much to drink after a nasty break up and to this day my ex’s initials are inked on my butt.” He chuckled “I mean, I was lucky enough that Josh managed to cover it up with some other stuff but still. It’s there and it sucks. We don’t tattoo if you’ve been drinking. Full stop.”

Ashton’s alcohol-numbed mind processed what the tattoo artist had just told him. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Calum. Ashton could see himself being friends with Calum.

“My fiancée called off our engagement and moved out last night.” He almost whispered. It was the first time he had said that out loud and somehow that made the whole situation feel so unexpectedly real. “She left me for her physical trainer, after she had promised me forever.”

The silence was heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. Ashton felt numb. Calum listened.

“I guess… I guess I came here ‘cos after all that I just wanted to believe again that something that would really, truly last forever, y’know? A tattoo can give me that.”

He felt cheated and ashamed and pathetic. Telling someone, albeit a total stranger, about his failed relationship had opened up some wounds. He was hurting and the dull ache which had previously been suppressed by alcohol was slowly fading away. He’d have to call his mother and tell her; inform his friends that a wedding was no longer in the works. He’d have to somehow fill the void that she left behind when she removed all traces of their cohabitation in existence when she had left in a flurry of blonde hair and champagne flutes.

“Tell you what,” Calum announced, pulling Ashton out of his own rather unsavoury thoughts, placing a fresh sheet of paper on the table. “Tonight we can brainstorm ideas. And then we’ll have a chat with Mikey to get you sorted for a good day to get it done, okay?”

Ashton agreed.

Together they filled the blank white sheet with swirls and whorls, harsh lines and jagged edges; undecipherable words and barely-discernable phrases. Michael joined them somewhere around sheet four. By the end of the night, not one of the patterns on any of the eight filled sheets of paper were viable candidates for a tattoo, but Calum laughed and Michael laughed and Ashton laughed for what felt like the first time in a very long time.

When Ashton finally left the tattoo parlour with Mikey and Calum’s contact details stored in his phone, the time on his analogue watch read 12.04.

 

* * *

 

 He woke up the next day with a sore head and a mouth that felt like sandpaper. The bed was cold and empty and Ashton swallowed back the lump in his throat, refusing to let himself get caught in this rut again. Rain pounded down the skylight above him. The overcast, grey skies gave no indication of the time. He groaned and rolled out of bed, wincing as his head pounded with every step it took to get him to the kitchen and set a kettle boiling for a cup of coffee.

 The events from the night before caught up to him whilst he sat at the small dining table with his head in his hands. Had he really gone to a tattoo parlour? Oh god. That must have been so embarrassing. He had to go back and apologise.

It was a rainy Saturday. Ashton decided, as he sipped at a scalding cup of fresh brewed coffee to clear his head, that he would be heading to pay Calum and Michael a visit once he got dressed.

 

* * * * * 

 

The tattoo parlour looked different in the daylight.

Ashton’s boots splashed against the puddles that had accumulated in the cobblestone pathway. The same buzzer signalled as he opened the heavy metal-framed glass door to the welcoming warmth of the shop.

It was Calum who sat behind the counter this time. When he saw Ashton, his face broke out into a huge grin and he climbed over the counter to greet him with an extended arm which pulled the shorter man into a bro-hug. It was as if they had known each other for years; not a couple of hours (barely sober on Ashton’s part, mind).

“Ash! Good to see you man. Here so soon?”

Calum’s sincere greeting had made his day. It felt nice having a friend.

“Yeah! Same here, man. Look, I just wanted to apologise for last night. I promise that’s not what I’m normally like. Was just a little down in the dumps and oh god I didn’t say anything exceedingly, unredeemably embarrassing, did I? I hope not, because you and Mikey were really cool to me and I am so, so sorry for coming in here buzzed and demanding a tattoo that late at night that was not cool at all and I am so embarrassed-”

“Woah woah, calm down, mate! It’s fine! We’ve dealt with much worse, believe me.” Calum interrupted his rambling, resting a hand on Ashton’s shoulder and chuckling light-heartedly to himself. “Now, are you in here for a tattoo again? I’m more than happy to help out now that you’re sober. At least I hope you are – it’s two in the afternoon.”

Ashton laughed and shook his head, grateful that his new friend wasn’t making a big fuss of the situation. He had thought over the idea of seriously getting inked. It had always been something he had wanted until he’d met _her_ , with her judgemental glances and disapproving looks at the heavily tattooed punk rocker that lived at the end of his street. Actually, when Ashton thought it over, there were a lot of things he had given up when he had entered that relationship. Obliviously with his fondness, he hadn’t realised that she was slowly but surely changing him. Throughout the course of the past three years, his wardrobe comprising of band tees and ripped jeans had been replaced with (frankly horrible) itchy, stiff sweaters and crisp shirts that she bought for him; with his own money, mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore a beanie.  

He glanced down at what he was currently wearing – a worn Foo Fighters shirt which he had adamantly refused to put away and a pair of dark sweatpants – as he stood in a tattoo parlour on a dodgy street, friends with a tattoo artist who had a facial piercings and wore backward snapbacks; patterns of ink along his torso proudly displayed on the tanned skin not covered by a drop-sleeved  muscle tank.

Ashton was hit by a sudden sense of liberation. For the first time since she packed her bags and left with what he thought was the shattered fragments of his heart, he began feeling that maybe her leaving was for the best. Their relationship had always been shaky – he was only now realising that what he had been mistaking for love was him slipping into a false sense of co-dependent routine. He hated the person he had become. Ashton made a decision that the moment he got home, he would be retrieving all his old clothes and shoes from the back of his wardrobe and chucking the ones she had got him out. He’d donate them, he decided, to the thrift shop down the road which raised money for the SPCA. Might as well give them some use.

He only realised he’s been staring at Calum’s face during his little epiphany when the guy began to squirm a little. “Is there something on my face? Ashton?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head to clear his mind a little. “Zoned out a bit there. Just thinking about… y’know.” He smiled softly in reply to Calum’s pitying glance and his eyes were drawn to a gleam of the light that caught on the latter’s face. He made his decision.

“Maybe not a tattoo today, Calum, but how about an eyebrow piercing?”

Calum grinned.

 

* * *

  

Ashton became a regular fixture at the shop after that, if only to hang out with the lads. If he wasn’t at work or in his newly-redecorated loft, he was at the shop goofing around with Calum and Michael. They had become really good friends – Ashton might even say the closest he’s ever had despite only having known them for weeks.

He found out one Autumn night that the shop was owned by this guy named Harry, who was really cool and currently operating from another parlour he owned in London. He popped by every now and again, Michael had told him, to do some guest work on clients and his sessions were always fully booked within hours of announcing his return. Calum had removed his shirt to reveal a back piece that “the Bossman Hazza” had done – a wide expanse of dense leaves that covered the taut skin across his shoulders. A tree canopy, Ashton realised, with two crows perched on narrow branches on each shoulder blade, facing each other but forever separated by shadows and space. The tree’s trunk ran down Calum’s spine, bark gnarly and twisted but strong and tall all the same.

It was beautiful. Ashton stared, mesmerised, absolutely captivated by the story the art had somehow managed to tell. How could drawings depict such emotion? He could see the strength of the trunk portrayed by the strong lines and delicate shading, picture the delicacy and realism of every individual leaf despite the entire piece being in shades of black, white and grey. 

He felt the melancholy that was permanently etched into his friend’s very being.

His back may have been to him, but Ashton hadn’t missed the look that flashed across Calum’s face in his reflection on the full-length mirror that was the East wall of the shop as he tugged his shirt back on. By the time he had turned back around to face Michael and him, the pain in his dark brown eyes had vanished and the familiar grin had found its way back to his face.

Michael had continued talking excitedly about anything and everything, long arms flailing with increasing vigour until he accidentally knocked an unopened can of red bull off the counter and clattering to the floor. He swore loudly, before sharing a mischievous smirk with Calum as they picked up the can and ran giggling to the kitchenette sink. There was a pop, followed by the sound of a fizz oozing over the top of the can and splattering as it hit the sink and floor. Calum and Michael were swearing and laughing and Ashton smiled at their antics, absentmindedly fiddling with the two barbells through his right eyebrow.

Tattoos told stories. He wanted to wear his, too.

 

* * *

 

 Several days after that, Ashton walked into the shop with a paper bag of warm pastries from the bakery down the road. He did this sometimes, brought in some food which he picked up on the way over from work, and share it with whoever happened to be free at the time. Occasionally a client who was awaiting their new work to bleed out extra ink before leaving would join in, and Ashton soon found he had made more friends in a matter of weeks than he had in months.

Today, the tattoo parlour was empty – Calum sat on the counter whilst Mikey lay sprawled across the cushioned bench.  They both looked up, perfectly synchronised, as Ashton walked in. It was almost comical.

“Hey,” he greeted.

Two unintelligible sounds replied.

“Oh my god, you brought food.” The Michael-shaped lump spoke “Calum, Cal, Calpal; we need to keep him.”

“Thanks mate!” Calum chirped, hopping off the counter to greet Ashton properly with a one-armed hug. “How are ya?”

“The usual. You?”

“Pretty quiet day. Michael did some inner helix piercings for these girls and continued work on Mark’s sleeve; I had two touch up appointments in the morning and a bellybutton piercing, so nothing too hectic. It’s good to see you.”

“Oh, oh oh” Michael exclaimed, muffled due to his mouth being stuffed with what looked like a blueberry muffin. Calum cringed in disgust. “Hazza’s stopping by tomorrow! You should pop by.”

He agreed, plain and simple.

 

* * *

  

It was a hectic day, and by the time Ashton reached the tattoo parlour in the same black jeans and Ramones raglan tee he’d worn to work, four faces looked up to meet his when he walked in.

Michael’s lilac hair pointed wildly in all directions. Calum’s blonde streaks peeked out from the front of his beanie. Across from them stood two unfamiliar faces.

“Ashton!” Michael called, exuberant and excitable as always. “This is Hazza and Lukey. Guys, this is Ashton.”

Harry was lanky and almost feline in his movements as he sauntered over to shake Ashton’s hand with a toothy grin on his boyish face. He hadn’t known what to expect when the others had told him about their boss, but this wasn’t it. The dark-haired man waving at him couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than them, dressed in a navy V-neck, charcoal blazer and black skinny jeans. Ashton could see the edges of tattoos where they peeked above the neck of his T-shirt and around the cuffs of his rolled sleeves.

Next to him was a tall – very tall – guy who Ashton could only assume was Lukey (Luke? Loki? Damnit, Michael). Like Harry, he wore tight black jeans although his were ripped at both knees. His blonde hair was styled up into a quiff which only emphasised his height and he had on a blue flannel shirt. A single, thin black hoop adorned the corner of his lower lip. The way he was fiddling at it constantly with his teeth seemed like a nervous habit that gave the impression he was not entirely comfortable with the whole situation, though he did throw a smile and a small wave Ashton’s way.

“Luke is Harry’s new protégé,” Calum pitched in. “We were just discussing different styles. Apparently Lukey here is a specialist in watercolour and realism! Hazza says he hasn’t found someone that talented since he picked up the gun himself.”

Luke blushed, though he tried to brush it off by coughing and covering his face with his hands.

“Guys,” he began. But was immediately cut off by Harry.

“Now now, love. I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t mean it. Especially not to these idiots.” His voice was low and heavily accented, leisurely-paced and Ashton was surprised at how out-of-place it sounded coming from him.

Michael and Calum immediately began to protest at being called idiots while Harry shook his head and rolled his eyes, smiling fondly as he gave Ashton a look of exasperation. Luke laughed and finally began to look more relaxed.

Conversation flowed easily with this lot and Ashton found himself having a really good time, just gathered around the shop floor sipping from beer bottles and laughing at each other’s stories. When Jon, a semi-retired piercer who worked some shifts at the shop, came around the corner with the final client for the day, he announced that he would close up for the night so the lads could have a proper catch up. They thanked him and headed towards the local club at Harry and Michael’s insistence.

 

The bass was loud, the interior dark and hot, but the music was decent and the bar excellent. The five men found a round booth and made themselves comfortable. A young brunette dressed in a little black dress came around to take their drink orders – the lads decided to kick start the night with several rounds of shots. She nodded and sashayed away, casting Calum a glance and smirk over her shoulder.

He winked back. Michael punched him in the arm.

 

* * * * *

 

It wasn’t long before Harry and Michael had disappeared into the packed dance floor. Calum joined them shortly after, having not-so-subtly meeting up with their server from before as she stepped out from behind the bar at the end of her shift.

That left Ashton and Luke in the booth, nursing cold beers and light-hearted conversation. In the few hours he had spent in the blonde’s presence, Ashton decided that he liked the guy. He could see them being good friends. Luke was soft spoken and generally reserved, though there were times when he emerged from his shell enough to chuck in a witty remark that thus far never failed to make Ashton laugh. The alcohol and good company had really helped him open up a bit and by this point he was laughing freely with contributing to conversations. He had a habit of fiddling at his lip ring with his teeth and tongue and scratched at his nose in the most peculiar, adorable way. The way he blushed so easily was also really, _really_ cute and Ashton just wanted to cuddle him and-

Ashton stopped his train of thoughts there, before it got too weird.  He’d only just met the guy!

“Ashton?”

He was drawn out of his thoughts by Luke’s voice, and he realised he had zoned out whilst the guy had been waiting for an answer to a question he hadn’t even registered.

“Yes,” he replied instinctively. “Wait. No. What was your question again?” he asked, sheepishly.

Luke only laughed it off, running his thin, agile fingers through his blonde quiff. “I asked if you wanted to dance.”

He smiled. “I’d love to.”

 

* * * * *

 

Luke was the most awkward dancer Ashton had ever encountered. “ _Okay, second worst,”_ he decided, after spotting Michael several paces away attempting an honestly appalling version of the Macarena.

He had a sneaking suspicion that Luke was deliberately making a fool of himself for Ashton’s amusement, or perhaps it was just the fact that his limbs were so ridiculously long and impossible to coordinate. There they stood, amidst a crowd of twerking and grinding young people, improvising their own renditions of the Sprinkler, Chicken Dance and good ol’ Fist Pump. It was hot and crowded and sweaty but Ashton couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed this hard since –

He refused to let himself think about his ex – those wonderful, early days of their courtship where he was convinced she was the only one for him. He wasn’t going to let those thoughts ruin this amazing night with his new, amazing friends. He continued moving along to the music, close enough to Luke that he could read every movement on the younger man’s face but not close enough to be touching.

As the heat got unbearable, Luke removed his flannel shirt, tying it loosely around his waist before smiling brightly at Ashton and resuming his dancing. Ashton beamed back, not skipping a beat but his eyes were preoccupied with scanning the pale, unmarked skin of Luke’s arms and sides that were uncovered by his black tank top. He was surprised – as far as he could tell, Luke had no tattoos.

 

* * * * *

 

Something had changed. Maybe it was the beat of the new song – slower, heavier, deeper. Maybe the renewed surge of freshly-consumed alcohol gushing through his veins was affecting his brain like the black lights and body paint surrounding them. Maybe Luke’s presence was intoxicating him in ways he had never felt before. He didn’t know how it happened, but they had somehow ended up in the dark, back edges of the dance floor, pressed up against one another and moving mindlessly along to the music. 

Luke’s hand were on Ashton’s hips and Ashton’s hands hand found their way up Luke’s broad, broad shoulders, tugging softly a the damp, curling strands of soft hair at the nape of his neck. Neither of them spoke, panting from exertion of dancing and chests occasional brushing against each other with the rise and fall from their heavy breaths. When Ashton looked up to meet Luke’s face his eyes were closed, lavender veins visible on his delicate eyelids. His lip ring was between his teeth, where the boy was biting on his lip subconsciously; lost in the moment. A bead of sweat rolled down the straight, narrow bridge of his nose and Ashton nuzzled it off the very tip with his own. An unintentional Eskimo kiss.

 Luke opened his eyes and for a moment, Ashton was consumed by blue. The pulsing, neon reflections and slick of sweaty bodies became nothingness for a moment.

Their breaths mingled. Their lips brushed-

“Lukey! Ashhh” a slurred, distant call had them pulling apart. “Where are you morons?”

Michael’s mess of light hair almost glowed in the black light. Harry trailed not far behind, wide grin and glow-in-the-dark body paint almost eerie patterns on his skin.

“There you are!” Michael shouted, too drunk to have any regard for volume control. “We’re leaving, boys!”

Harry chuckled, slinging one of Michael’s arms around his shoulder as Ashton did the same with his other. Luke dutifully held on to their belongings and led them through the crowd. They waved goodbye at Calum – dancing (grinding) with the same girl from before – on their way out. Michael began to shout something along the lines of “GET SOME, YOU DAWG” before Luke kicked him in the shin.

The chilly bite of fresh air sobered the men up a little. They sat Mikey down on a nearby bench, where he immediately curled up into a ball and started snoring. Harry phoned for cabs as Luke leaned against a streetlamp, face hidden by shadow. Ashton was suddenly hit with a wave of fatigue; of immense tiredness. He felt like he could sleep for days.

“Ashton, mate.” Harry’s rich, deep voice called “It was great to meet you, man. Hopefully I’ll see you around?”

“Absolutely, Haz.” Was great to finally meet you, too. Tonight was fun. Thanks for the drinks.”

Harry grabbed his hand in a firm handshake, the other waving off Ashton’s thanks. “Was my pleasure.” He smiled, a genuine, kind smile.

A taxi pulled up on the road beside them with a screech of brakes. Michael groaned.

“I think I’ll take him over to mine to crash – looks like Cal would appreciate privacy in their apartment tonight.” Harry winked, and Ashton giggled. “We could have the cab drop you off where you need to be?”

“No, no. It’s fine, Harry. I don’t live too far. I’ll walk home.” Ashton smiled, politely refusing the offer. It was a beautiful night and he could use the walk to sober up a bit.

Harry looked doubtful, but he didn’t insist. He nodded. “Text me when you get home, yeah? Just to make sure everyone got home alright.”

Ashton agreed with a teasing remark about mother hen Harry before helping Harry and Luke to load Mikey into the taxi. When he was sprawled across Harry’s lap in the backseat, Luke stepped back s Harry gave directions to the driver.

He looked at Ashton, expression unreadable. For a moment he lifted his hand, looking like he wanted to say something, only to lower it and reach for the front door handle of the taxi.

“Goodnight, Ashton.” He folded himself into the seat. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Luke.”

The car door slammed shut, the tires screeched; and Ashton stood alone on the sidewalk.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast and Guitars and Ed Sheeran.

 

Five very long, arduous days passed before Ashton finally got a chance to see the guys again. He had been informed via texts from Calum and Mikey that Harry could only stay till the end of the week, but Luke would remain at the shop indefinitely. Harry was very adamant on having him stick around, and warned them that if they scared him off he’d have their left ears as turkey decorations at Thanksgiving. Ashton didn’t question it.

He did, however, definitely want to catch up with Harry before he left back for London, hence why Ashton ran into the shop just as they were closing up on Thursday night, five coffee takeout cups precariously balanced in a cardboard holder in one hand and an extra-large paper bag of pastries in the other.

Luke and Calum were behind the counter, an iPod between them with a splitter allowing them to have a pair of headphones each. They both looked up as he stumbled in, using his shoulder to push open the heavy door.

“Hey,” he greeted.

The two appeared to have been in the midst of an air guitar jam session, and whilst Luke immediately stopped, ears tinged pink in embarrassment, Calum merely smiled and continued without skipping a beat.

He could hear the faintest of buzzing coming from down the end of the corridor. It occurred to him that all the time he’d been hanging out at the tattoo parlour, never once had he ventured into the tattoo studio rooms. He suddenly had a strong compulsion to do so, but was snapped out of his reverie by Michael bursting forth from the smaller piercing studio announcing that he smelt baked goods.

A middle-aged lady trailed out of the room behind him, shaking her head in an exasperated yet fond manner that Ashton had come to associate as peoples’ reaction to the now platinum-haired boy. She offered polite greetings to Ashton, Calum and Luke before strolling over to Michael, who had already attacked the bakery bag and was chugging down at a cup of hot chocolate. They hugged; she squeezed his cheek affectionately as she paid him for the shiny new piercing in her tragus, before patting him lightly on the bum and leaving with a wave at the other guys.

“Teish. Quite a regular here.” He explained to nobody in particular “Been doing tattoos and piercings for her and her daughter Stacey since this place opened. Nice lady.”

Calum’s solo jam session seemed to have concluded, for he finally removed his headphones and switched off the iPod.

“Was that Stacey’s mom? Oh goody, food! You’re the bestest of the best, Ash. Graaawr coffeeeeee.”

Ashton caught Luke’s eye. For the briefest moment he thought he saw some strange emotion cross those sharp features, but in a blink it was gone and he decided that he must have imagined it. Luke smiled; that wide, toothy smile that Ashton found unbelievably endearing and he couldn’t keep his own dimpled grin from creeping on to his face.

“What were you guys listening to?” he asked to break the, albeit comfortable, silence.

“Blink. A Day to Remember. Green Day. Lukey here has got some quality music taste, dude. Playlist is on point.” Calum gave a blushing Luke a thumbs up and in doing so, dropped his cronut onto the floor. “Fuck.”

“I think he’ll fit right in,” Mikey pitched in.

“I’m right here, guys, I can hear you. Jeez.”

“Alright, sassy pants.” Michael shrugged “Was only complimenting you, Princess. But keep up the sass and Calpal here might have a worthy competitor.”

“No one out-sasses DJ Ca$h Money. No one.” Calum’s voice rose from presumably where he was picking crumbs off the floor.

“Ashtoooon.” Luke whined. “Help. I’m stuck here all day with two guys, one who calls himself Pimp ‘Cliffaconda’ Flavio and another who has a rapper name with a dollar sign in it.”

Ashton was too busy double over laughing to respond.

“I’m crashing on their couch, too! And Calum has loud sex with what’s-her-face from the other night and Mikey hogs the TV to play Destiny.”

“Oi!” Calum’s head popped into sight in an almost comical way. “Her name’s Livvy. Olivia. And it’s only loud because she can’t help but scream my name so goo-”

“OH MY GOD.”  
“LA LA LA LA LA.”

  
“Calum!” Ashton admonished between peals of laughter.

Calum only shrugged with the impish smirk tugging at a corner of his lip. Douchebag. “Only telling it as it is, mate.”

Luke and Michael groaned in unison

“Oh and whilst we’re on this topic, she’s coming over tonight so if you guys get that offended by the fact that I’m getting laid and you’re not, don’t say I didn’t give you enough notice to leave.”

“Yeah, well, I was planning on heading over to Chrissy, Derek and Rob’s tonight anyway. Gamer night - you losers would never understand – so I’ll just ask if I can crash on their couch. M’ sure they won’t mind.”

Calum nodded, pleased, but the sight of Luke’s slightly dejected face made his own glaze over slightly with guilt. Before either could say anything, however, Ashton’s voice betrayed him and spoke without permission from his brain.

“How about you, Luke? You could crash at mine tonight if ya want.” Three faces stared blankly back at him. “We could get pizza or takeout; crack open a couple of beers. I think there’s a game on tonight, if I’m not mistaken. Only if you’re into that kind of thing though. Sports is kind of a hit or miss with people, aye?” He knew he was rambling, was aware of the movements in his vocal cords producing the sound that formed the words spewing out his mouth without consent, but it was too late now to stop so he decided to try and salvage whatever was left of his dignity. He sighed. “Truth is, the loft has been feeling a little too big for me recently, it’ll be nice having someone over for a bit. Just a nice lad’s night, ya know? God knows it’s been a while since I’ve had one – apart from the nights spent in here with you guys, of course.”

A curious mix of emotions tainted the same three faces from before. Twisted looks of pity, and in Calum’s case relief, crossed Michael and Cal’s features. But Luke – Luke had this soft smile which grew into a toothy grin, a deep dimple appearing in his right cheek as his eyes never left Ashton’s.

“Sure, dude. Sounds mean as.” Inklings of an unfamiliar accent seeped into Luke’s voice, and Ashton made a mental note to ask about that later. “Thanks for giving me an escape from his jackrabbit.”

“Oi. Watch it, Hemmings.”

The teasing banter became a pleasant buzz of white noise to Ashton’s ears as butterflies orchestrated an elaborately choreographed routine in his tummy. He suddenly hoped he’d remembered to wash the dishes and put away the clean laundry that morning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So, Luke Hemmings, what’s your story?”

They were seated on Ashton’s couch, television on and muted, cold beers in their hands.

“My story?”

“Yeah. Y’know. Everyone has a story. I’d like to know yours, if you’re willing to share.”

“There isn’t much to tell, and I don’t know where to begin.” He answered, carefully. Part of Ashton shrivelled a little in disappointment – Luke had pre-established walls, and the question only made him reinforce them with double-forged steel. He wanted to be Luke’s friend, and he hadn’t wished to scare him off. Instead, he kept his features calm and unchanged, playfully adding:

“Well, how about your tattoo story. How you got into the biz. The whole shebang.”

Luke chuckled, clearly relieved. This was a safe topic, then, Ashton made a mental note.

“I was in London, vandalising alley walls and selling my art on the street. I was new to the country, captivated and inspired by the big city life. The lights, the people, the food, the culture; I needed an outlet, y’know? Art just felt right. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Harry found me, took me under his wing, and here we are today.” Luke shrugged “Somehow he’s completely changed my life and dragged me halfway across the globe, but I’ve met you guys and I’m loving it here, strangely enough. It feels more like home than anywhere else has in years.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I owe Hazza so much.” The corner of Luke’s lips quirked up in a fond, soft smile at the thought of his friend and boss. Ashton couldn’t take his eyes away from the movement of the thin black ring at the corner of his mouth. Luke cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled. “Enough about me for now, methinks. What’s _your_ story, Ashton? Ashy? Ashbo?”

Ashton scoffed and rolled his eyes at the impish smirk on the other man’s face. “Ashton F. Irwin. Owns a music store on Melhoff street, off Addison Lane. Until several months ago, friendless and living alone in this shoebox of a loft apartment after his fiancée left him for her physical trainer. Befriended some of the coolest dudes in town at the incredibly stupidly-named Tattoo Styles Parlour.” He paused, appreciating the sound of Luke’s breathy giggle. “I sleep on the left side of the bed. When I’m in a room, all shoes have to be lined up in pairs against the wall. I brush my teeth before breakfast, not after. I think narwhals are badass and I prefer Star Trek to Star Wars. My dad walked out on me and my mum and my siblings when I was eight. I got my eyebrow pierced by who I now consider to be one of my best friends the day after we first met. I don’t have any tattoos, though I intend to acquire some in the near future. Jack Daniels over Jim Beam. Pepsi over coke. What else… oh yeah. Both are heavenly, but waffles beat pancakes any day of the week.”

Luke said nothing; his blue-eyes gaze intense and unreadable. Ashton stared back.

The silence was tense, but not unpleasantly so. It was as if they were trying to decipher each other, read into each other’s very existence. It was Luke who spoke first, never breaking eye contact.

“I don’t, either.”

Ashton was confused. “You don’t what?”

“Have any tattoos.” He turned his gaze to his shuffling feet, repeating in a soft whisper “I don’t have any tattoos.”

When he turned back to face Ashton a second later, however, whatever trace of shyness had disappeared. “What’s the F stand for? Ashton F. Irwin. Frederick. Fitzgerald. Frank.”

“That’s all you got out of what I just told you? Seriously, dude?”

“Felix. Fraser. Francisco.”

“Luke-”

“Flynn. Fred. Francois- oh my God, it isn’t Flavio, is it? Is that why Michael calls himself ‘Pimp Flavio’? Oh my God. This is brilliant.”

Ashton stared at Luke, eyebrow quirked, until the boy had finally stopped laughing to himself.

“No. But I’m not telling you what it is anymore because of whatever that was.”

“But Ashy…” Luke whined, honest-to-god _pouting_ at Ashton and it took everything he had not to boop the guy on his adorably pointy nose.

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

Luke continued pouting and Ashton resisted the urge to laugh so hard that he was positive one of his lungs was on the verge of collapse. He refused to let up, though. Ashton Irwin was one stubborn, determined individual. Finally, Luke sighed.

“Fine. I’ll find out eventually, though. Just you wait.” He winked – _winked_ – before snuggling deeper into the pillows and blankets that Ashton had piled onto the couch earlier.

The night went by in comfortable, companionable silence. They watched the rugby game – yelling and cussing accordingly – and some old sitcom reruns before some singing reality show came on. They proceeded to critique each performance, doing their best impressions of the judges which resulted in Ashton quite literally squealing with laughter. Luke was an insanely good impressionist, Ashton decided.

Ashton’s fingers drummed lightly on his thigh to the beat of the songs and hummed along with some more familiar tunes. I wasn’t until they were halfway through the third cover of Ed Sheeran’s _Lego House_ to air that night that he realised there was a second harmony in accompaniment to the sound blaring from the television speakers – a husky, quiet voice coming from the pile of blankets next to him on the sofa.

A voice he felt was a thousand times better than the reality show Hopeful on the screen.

He waited till the song had ended and proceeded to judges’ comments before muting the tv and turning to his house guest. Confused by the silence, Luke’s blonde head emerged from within the blanket mountain.

“Luke.”

“Ashton.”

“What was that?”

“Lego House. By Ed Sheeran. I thought you knew it.”

Ashton rolled his eyes. “No, you moron. I know the song. I meant what was _that._ Your singing.”

“What about my singing?” Luke asked, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion before embarrassment washed over his face “I’m so sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine whenever I watch these singing competition on telly. I always end up singing along and half the time I don’t even realise I’m doing it. I’m sorry-”

Luke was getting flustered and the insecurity that crossed his features made Ashton hate himself a little. He felt as though he’d just kicked a puppy.

“No! No, Luke. That’s not what I meant at all. What I was trying to say is that you’re really, really fucking good. Why aren’t you on shows like that? You’d win for sure!”

At Ashton’s words, Luke blushed so hard that red crept from the tips of his ears down his neck to beneath the collar of his crew neck shirt. He chewed his lip ring subconsciously and a bashful little smile adorned his face. Blue eyes sparkled in the dim light of the lounge and Ashton knew in that moment that he was so completely wrapped around Luke’s pale, calloused finger.

 

 * * * * *

 

Ashton awoke to the smell of something burning.

He was upright in an instant, blinking away the floating stars in his vision from having stood up too fast. He all but sprinted to the kitchen, and in his disoriented state stood frozen in confusion at the sight of another human standing over the stove, hissing at a smoking frying pan held at arm’s length.

A very tall, very long-limbed human whose blonde hair resembled a bird’s nest atop his head.

Said human looked up at Ashton’s sudden arrival, letting out a little squeak just before the aforementioned frying pan clattered noisily against the metal of the sink. Red tinted his cheeks and exposed neck – from surprise or embarrassment, Ashton didn’t know.

“Ash.” Luke cleared his throat, adorably awkward. “You’re awake. Good morning. I er- I tried to make breakfast.”

Ashton wanted nothing more than to clear the space between them and kiss Luke right on his perky little nose. It was too early for this. He chuckled lightly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I appreciate the effort, Lukey. But what say you that we head out for some brunch? There’s this café down the street. They make awesome breakfast waffles.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The bell above the door chimed, announcing Luke’s arrival.

“Hi! Be right with you!” a familiar voice called from the back room. Ashton himself appeared seconds later, wiping his palms on the front of his shirt. “How can I help- Oh. Hey man!”

Luke stood in the doorjamb smiling widely at Ashton, feeling entirely at home amongst the various instruments laid out around the shop floor. Guitars were displayed hanging from the walls, keyboards perched on stands and a full sized drum kit was set up in the far corner. A green magazine stand packed with sheet music and books stood beside the till counter, on which sat a painted porcelain bowl filled with guitar picks of every colour.

The shop wasn’t large at all, but it was homely and well taken care of and very… Ashton, Luke decided. Framed photographs of both family and celebrities who’d visited the store adorned the wooden wall behind the counter. One of the newer additions – Luke could tell from the freshly varnished, more modern frame – featured Ashton, Calum, Michael and Himself, smiling widely from the long bench of Tattoo Styles Parlour.

“How are ya, Lucas?” Ashton voice bright and cheery, beaming at Luke with his dimples on full display. “Little early for you to be out and about, no?”

Luke shrugged, the bobble on his beanie bobbing slightly from the movement.

“I brought us coffee.”

The grateful moan Ashton let out did not affect Luke in any way whatsoever – none at all. He gulped, taking a moment to collect himself before placing the warm take-away cup into Ashton’s outstretched hand, opting to stare at his feet instead of the way those long fingers wrapped themselves around the cup.

“You’re a saint. Thanks, man.”

Luke simply smiled, brushing off any and all of Ashton’s attempts at expressing gratitude. After all, a simple coffee on his Wednesday off was the least Luke could do to thank Ashton for his hospitality over the weekend. The elder man had been a wonderful host – a great friend, and Luke once again marvelled at how well the two of them had gotten along from the start. He remembers the first night they met – although he vehemently denies it and instead cites and the copious alcohol consumption for the apparent amnesia – the almost kiss, and how that same feeling of _want_ re-emerged its greedy little head when he’d seen Ashton standing in the kitchen, torso bare and sleep in his eyes.

He was so confused when it came to Ashton. Part of him wanted to hold on the shorter man and never let him go, to kiss him on the beach as the sun set over the glistening horizon and fuck each other senseless against a wall; and the other screamed at him with all the risks that those feelings would impose on their budding friendship.

Luke had never been much good at analysing his own emotions. He had taken to boxing them up into little pigeon-hole sized compartments and filed away in his brain, to be dealt with at more convenient, less-sober times.

“So,” Ashton spoke, breaking the comfortable silence “what brings Luke Hemmings into the finest music store this side of town?”

 _Its owner,_ Luke thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he replied with another truth. “Was looking to buy a guitar, actually. When I moved over here with Hazza I had to leave mine behind in London. Kinda sucked – I was rather fond of that old thing – but it was falling apart and just wasn’t worth bringing over.”

“Oh! I had no idea you played!” Ashton’s smile was breath taking enough for Luke to forget to feel offended at his surprised tone. “Come with me, we’ve got several new arrivals that I think you might like.”

Without waiting for a response, Ashton grabbed hold of Luke’s wrist and pulled him along to a corner of the shop, where two Stratocasters and a Les Paul were mounted on hanging stands along the wooden wall. He paused dramatically before the beautiful instruments, turning slowly to face Luke. Ashton rubbed at his stubbled chin, eyebrows furrowed as he studied Luke carefully.

“Fender.” He said, simply.

“Correct.” Luke replied, not even attempting to keep the smile out of his voice.

Ashton’s triumphant overreaction, complete with fist pumps and giggles, made Luke so overcome with a sense of fondness that he wanted to punch himself in the face.

“I knew it!” Ashton exclaimed, “I just knew you are a Fender guy, not a Gibson. Knew it from the moment I met you.”

“Oh really?”

Ashton giggled nervously, pink staining the tips of his ears. “Yeah.” He met Luke’s eyes shyly, before clearing his throat. “But I do that with pretty much everyone I meet though – it’s weird but also kinda my thing, I guess? Like the lads, for example. I had Michael pegged as a Gibson guy and when I asked him he said that Melody Makers are all he’s ever played in his life. And Calum – well our Calpal is more of a bass player than a guitarist but he admitted that he was partial towards Fenders, just as I’d suspected.”

Luke hummed, intrigued. “What about you, Ashton?”

Ashton blinked, caught by surprise “Huh, nobody’s asked me that before. And it doesn’t really count cos I can’t do a first impression of myself, now can I?” he giggled. “I’m more of a drummer, Lukey, but when I do play guitar I find myself reaching for the Gibson Les Pauls.”

Luke, feeling exceptionally playful, pretended to gasp in mock offense “Oh my, Ashton. This might just be a deal breaker for us. I play Fenders and you Gibsons? How will we ever get along?”

Something flashed in Ashton’s eyes before his non-committal shrug, but it was gone quick enough for Luke to think that he’d simply imagined it. “I’m impartial when it comes to guitars, really. Like I said, my drums are my babies.”

“Do you bang your babies often or-” Luke began, eyes widening comically when he realised how wrong his question had sounded, in spite of his honest intent. “Oh shit, sorry. That sounded wrong. Fuck. I didn’t mean – yeah. Sorry. What were we talking about again? Right. Drums. You bangi-playing. Playing drums. And I’m here for a guitar. Righty-o. You were showing me a guitar?”

Luke could not remember the last time he had blushed this hard; suddenly he was plagued with a fear of dying from all the blood flooding his head region. When the silence became overbearing, he forced himself to meet Ashton’s hazel eyes, which were currently watering with their owner’s efforts to not burst out laughing.

Ashton decided to drop it with a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, and as he moved to pick up the white Stratocaster from its stand Luke swore he had never loved Ashton more for letting the moment slide.

“I think this one needs no explanation, really. Classic, clean design, great sound – the archetypal Stratocaster.” He handed the guitar over to Luke, who instantly felt more at ease with the instrument in his hands. He ran his fingers over the strings, subconsciously pressing chords to the frets. He missed playing more than he’d imagined.

Lost in his own little world, he vaguely registered Ashton humming thoughtfully under his breath before shuffling away and returning with something else in his arms from the back room. It wasn’t until the shop owner had settled the wooden crate on the floor and was sliding open the lid that he got Luke’s full attention.

Amidst all the protecting packaging lay a gleaming black and white Classic Telecaster, which Ashton picked up tenderly with an extravagant flourish of his free hand.

“This, my dear Lukey, is a vintage custom ’72 Telecaster. Got it in about a week ago, but I couldn’t bear to put it out on the floor.” His eyes flicked to Luke’s, tongue darting out to lick at his lip as he and Luke switched guitars. “Was waiting for a person deserving of it, I guess.”

Luke held the guitar reverently, with wonder akin to holding a newborn child for the first time. It felt _right_ in his hands. He strummed out a melody from the depths of his memory, one that he couldn’t even identify at the present time.

“Let me hook you up to an amp so you can give it a proper go.” Ashton grinned, leading Luke by the small of his back into the soundproof booth at the side of the store. Within minutes, he was gave Luke the thumbs up and the blonde slipped seamlessly into his element.

Somewhere along the way, Ashton began adding to the melodies with his cajon and before Luke knew it the two were having a small jam session. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of missed chords and a lot of ‘accidental’ knee bumps.

Later, when Luke exited the shop with a new guitar case strapped across his back, he would be absolutely positive of two things.

  1. He and that guitar were simply meant to be
  2. He was undeniably wrapped around Ashton’s (abnormally long) finger.



 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Thanks for sticking around.  
> So there was just a little bit of insight into Luke's mind this chapter - I thought I'd mix it up a bit by taking a peek of where the story's at from Luke's P.O.V., since this story is mostly gonna be from Ashton's.
> 
> I really hope you're enjoying reading this story as much as I am enjoying writing it.


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